Review of Gong's Camembert Electrique

Released 1971

" Well help me help me sing this song, I wanna stay living for much too long. Now I wanna ride this big brass gong. Where am I babe? You don't know!"


I can't help but smile when I think of this album. Not only is there is a great deal of humor in the album itself, but as a student this was one of a few select records whose oddness when broadcast on the communal music centre in the hall of, brought forth looks of incredulity from the 'straights' and helped to cement the unfavourable reputation myself and my cohorts quite deliberately built up and relished.

Remarkably I can't recall which of these cohorts first purchased Camembert Electrique. I certainly acquired a vinyl copy at some point and I am now on my second CD copy. Whoever introduced the first copy to the group did us a favour. Gong are a band who are a form of musical marmite, inspiring either fervoured devotion or mild horror.

I knew nothing about Gong before Camembert Electrique, other than their associations with pixies and teapots through various other album covers spotted in the second hand bins. Clearly they were bonkers. I guessed their Frenchness contributed to this mania and eccentricity.

There's really no point trying to draw comparisons between Gong and any other mainstream prog band. Indeed it is their individuality which is so endearing.

The record starts with a brief introduction in French to the Planet Gong by a non human entity. This segues into You Can't Kill Me, heavy on sax, chemically enhanced female backgrounds, some excellent percussion and largely free form lyrics. The bursts of guitar, very low in the mix, are heavy on distortion and bent notes. It is highly repetitive with hints of jazz influence and unhealthy catchy.

I've Bin Stoned Before does exactly what it says on the tin, being a tirade of stoned monologue underpinned by gorgeous sax and grand hammond. Bonkers but brilliant.

It is difficult to pin down whether there is a theme or concept behind the album other than being the collective free form jamming of a bunch of French hippies. Not that this is a bad thing. Honest.

There are odd interludes which work very well through the headphones: Wet Cheese Delirium for example combines an indefinable sound effect with a largely incomprehensible repeated lyric. It lasts less than a minute but adds to the overall madness.

The highlight of the record is undoubtably Fohat Digs Holes In Space. It starts with mystical sound effects, weird female lyrics, a repeating percussive theme which builds in intensity with early Floydian type keyboards before culminating in hilarious drug referencing lyrics and a tremendous guitar solo.

Tried So Hard is very sedate by comparison, with a more orthodox rhythm, lyrics which invite you to sing along with a quite punky vocal style morphing through more gentle verses becoming about twelve songs in one. Listening to it again as I type, I had forgotten just how complex and deliciously effective this track can be.

Overall, it's a hugely enjoyable record with outstanding playing, massive prog credentials and long term appeal. All these years later, I can find at least as much to enjoy as I did as a student still relatively new to the world of prog.

Review of Yes' Fragile

Released 1971

"Love comes to you and then after, dream on, on to the heart of the sunrise. Sharp-distance, how can the sun with it's arms all around me? Sharp-distance, how can the wind with so many around me I feel lost in the city."

My first three Yes albums were - in order of purchase - The Yes Album, Close to The Edge and 90125. My crashing disappointment with the last of these had the impact of devaluing the other two, coming the consider them as good, but not great.

Thus, by the time I went away to University, Yes could not be considered a favourite band of mine, although I had the first two of these three albums on opposing sides of a C90 cassette. I was, if truth be told, gutted that i had come to see Yes as nothing special. I have previously mentioned elsewhere in this blog that I had been aware of the mystique and grandeur of the Yes name from a very young age, long coveting the gorgeousness of Roger Dean's handiwork, fantasizing that the music that it enveloped was as beautiful and mysterious. Now, three albums in, the pedestal had toppled and my interest had waned.

My opinion was changed by a friend's elder brothers collection of original Yes LPs. This friend had inherited not only his brothers records but his passion for Yes. This was, from memory, a more or less complete collection of Yes' seventies oeuvre, so there was wall to wall Roger Dean, vast opening gate folds and lyric sheets. Prog heaven, in other words. Combine this with the extra kudos afforded by the scuffed edges, mild fading and industrial thickness of the vinyl and I could once more glimpse my pre-pubescent fervor for the mystique of the band.

And so to Fragile itself. I knew in advance that this was seen by fans as one of the pinnacles not just of Yes' career but of the entire prog genre. The artwork was obviously iconic one of those I had been aware of from before the age of ten.

This was the first album featuring Rick Wakeman, and it's his distinctive keyboard work that launches Roundabout and continues to define a key shift in Yes' sound from The Yes Album. I have as much time for Tony Kaye as Rick Wakeman. I've wondered often why the latter is so revered while Tony was all but forgotten until the execrable 80's albums. They have a very different sound but of equal value in my view. However, Roundabout's undoubted infectiousness is down to Rick Wakeman's contribution. I read somewhere that Jon Anderson was inspired to write the lyrics when seeing the mountains of Scotland looming out the mist, not that you would know from his bonkers lyrics: as obtuse as a fish in a Landrover.

What stops Fragile being regarded more highly be me and by many others is the mix of more successfully realised lengthier group songs and the shorter individual tracks. Yes, it's very prog to show off your remarkable virtuosity, but, call me unadventurous, it only succeeds in punctuating the album badly. Just as The Beatles White Album would have been a less successful release if the genius of the track sequencing had been altered, I believe Fragile could have been a classic with more prudent editing.

Now that I've shown my colours as a miserable old fart, this is a minor quibble as the longer tracks are uniformly excellent. South Side of The Sky is a particular favourite with a grand interplay between Rick and Steve Howe. As barmy as Jon Anderson is, his performance is transcendent, in a league of his own. SSOTS is a standout group effort with Bill Bruford's drumming frighteningly complex and very very tight with Chris' bass.

Long Distance Runaround achieves the seemingly impossible: a catchy sing-a-long prog song with lyrics that defy explanation.

Heart of The Sunrise is stunning. Jon's delivery is profoundly beautiful producing arguably the best track Yes had recorded up until that point.

To this day, although not my favourite Yes album, Fragile remains one of the finest headphones albums I own.

Review of Spirit's First Album

Released 1968

"Look beneath your lid some morning, See those things you didn't quite consume— The world's a can for Your fresh garbage . . . Look beneath your lid some morning, See those things you didn't quite consume— Your fresh garbage . . ."

I have a surreal form of Alzheimer's surrounding the purchase of my first copy of Spirit's debut album.

Firstly, the artwork for my copy was entirely different to the one pictured above; a head shot split between the five members of the band. I have absolutely no recall regarding what the artwork actually depicted. None whatsoever, other than to say with (almost) complete certainty that it was different.

Secondly, when I first played the album, I noted that although the track listing on the sleeve matched the tracks on the vinyl, both labels were from a different Spirit album. I think it was from Clear Spirit. Rather than content myself with the fact that I was possibly in the possession of something which could be reasonably valuable, I returned to the shop and brought it to their attention, probably expecting a refund or discount. Fool.

Thirdly, although I passed it pretty much every day for four years on my way to University and / or the pub a few hundred yards away, and then actually lived within spitting distance of it for another couple of years, I cannot for the life of me remember the name of the record store. With the following brief note, I'm sure one of my reprehensible associates from that time will be able to fill in the blanks.

The shop was run by two physically very similar brothers of a very dour disposition. Long, lank and dark hair, dark jackets and ne'er a smile betwixt them. I purchased Spirit's first album on my first visit there. One of my most prized possessions was a second hand copy of The Twelve Dreams Of Dr Sardonicus. Given that in West Cornwall, I had to rely very much on what other people discarded to broaden my musical knowledge, coming across a shop in Glasgow with a new copy of a Spirit album was nothing short of a revelation. One of the miserable brothers took my money with a disgruntled snort, handed over the record and practically willed me out of the shop.

I didn't have high expectations as I had previously read that TTDODS was a career highpoint. I was curious just how similar to it's more prominent cousin their first effort would be, especially as it was made way back in 1968. I was only two when it was released, for goodness sake. I suspected and worried that it may be a poppier effort and doubted that it would have any prog rock credentials.

Fresh Garbage then brought some relief. It was reassuringly similar to TTDODS: stoner rhythms, excellent production values, mad and decidedly the work of the same genius - Randy California. Mechanical World and Uncle Jack had a definitive pop sensibility: short, catchy, memorable hummable tunes with strong vocals from the underrated Jay Ferguson.

So far, so very Spirit. Strong tunes with enough weirdness and proficient musicianship to make me smile smugly that this was indeed of a similar quality to TTDODS.

Taurus was the first stand out track for me. As well it's otherworldly keyboard and guitar, I sat up straight, astonished that the opening guitar motif from Led Zeppelin's Stairway To Heaven was replicated, practicality note for note. I checked the release date once more and then scurried back to a trusty biography of Percy and Co. On this occasion my memory hadn't deserted me: I found a passage referring to Jimmy and Robert attending a Spirit gig in the late sixties. The thieving beggars then blatantly lifted the refrain from Taurus wholesale. Praise indeed for the magnificently inventive Mr California. Of itself Taurus is worth the price of the album alone. Other highlights on the album were the sprawling, jazzy and distinctly prog Elijah and the catchy Gramophone Man.

I still don't understand why Spirit are not more highly regarded both in the prog community but also in the rock music community in general. The playing is faultless, the songwriting well above average with an inventiveness which, while it doesn't always work, especially on some later albums, is never less than fascinating.

To coin a cliche: a worthy addition to any prog music fan's collection.

Review of The Door's L.A. Woman

Released 1971

"Cops in cars, the topless bars.
Never saw a woman...so alone, so alone
So alone, so alone.
Motel, Money, Murder, Madness.
Let's change the mood from glad to sadness.
Mr. Mojo Risin".

My only previous Doors album was their debut. Leaping from that to their last album proper (no one really counts the two efforts without Jim Morrison surely?) was an odd way for me to build up their discography; the contrast in styles between the two are amongst the most pronounced in any bands catalogue.

A significant number of the albums I purchased in my late teens were chosen through economy and availability. Spotting an unknown, unrecognised second hand album for one pound from the late sixties or early seventies with odd or interesting artwork, pretentious song titles, side long suites or one that simply looked 'interesting', would always inspire me to put my hand in my pocket.

Hence, the battered and faded copy of L.A. Woman with suspicious stains on the reverse, spotted in Helston market for 50p was destined to end up on my shelves.

The contrast in sleeve design between their first and last albums was distinctly odd. The iconic artwork of their eponymous album showed the young, mysterious, sensual, powerful Morrison brooding magnificently into the lens, whilst his band members faded solemnly into shadow. On L.A. Woman, Morrison - bearded and bloated and looking much older than his 27 years - is hunched down to look shorter and thereby less important than his band mates. His appearance is exaggerated further by the awful pastel yellow colouring which makes Ray Manzarek look like one of the Simpsons.

Because the first album was predominantly energetic, intellectual pop, the bluesy intro to The Changeling took me by surprise, as did the guttural grunting which announces Morrison's presence. Only four and half years passed between the two albums, but Morrisons growling rasp is more akin to an aging bluesman. The overall sound was much thicker with a session bassist adding to Manzarek's left hand. This was unmistakably an album by The Doors, but with a maturity which belied their still tender years and short career.

Love Her Madly was a perfect pop song with a typically infectious keyboard motif demonstrating their collective ability to write commercially successful three minute tunes, although they were clearly ploughing a blues based furrow.

Both Been Down So Long and Cars Hiss By My Window show a very different vocal style and the incredible diversity of Robby Kriegers playing, with the pacing of the latter in particular revealing a very different writing style.

I've long maintained that any aspiring rock singer only needs to study the works of Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix to learn all there is to know about perfecting rock vocal phrasing. Both singers styles are, in my opinion, natural and unforced and have never been surpassed.

The quality of Morrison's phrasing and overall delivery is superbly illustrated on the title song, which, is for me, one of the finest moments in my entire music collection. The structure of the song is pure prog, expertly constructed with moments of genuine drama. Although I have heard it probably hundreds of times, the point where the tempo shifts and slows from driving rock to slow controlled blues-prog - "change the mood from glad to sadness" - makes me shiver appreciatively every time. Genius.

Side two is arguably much more prog like. L'America and Hyacinth House could just as easily have been found on the first Van Der Graaf Generator album: weird pop, if you like.

Crawling King Snake is a blues cover which could have been a horrible self parody were it not for the radical change in Morrison's voice and capability of the musicians.

The WASP was the last recorded opportunity Morrison had to set his poetry directly to music in his lifetime. Of course, it is easy to view his poetry as no better than sixth form doodling, but I think this undervalues the unique chemistry which occurs when his lyrics were accompanied by the music of The Doors. Supported with any other musicians, I don't think the result would have been as compelling.

Riders On The Storm in the context of the album - the last song of their career, in effect - takes on a very different complexion to it's status as a timeless single. At the risk of sounding as pretentious as many believe Mr Mojo himself to be, I consider the cumulative effect of the album to be a profound and mystical work of art. It will be a very good album indeed to push L.A. Woman out of my top three.

Review of Pink Floyd's Atom Heart Mother

Released 1970

"And if you sit don't make a sound
Pick your feet up off the ground
And if you hear as the warm night falls
The silver sound from a time so strange
Sing to me, sing to me"

That this is my forty fourth review and my seventh Pink Floyd album review, will probably not surprise most seasoned prog fans. Indeed, any prog fan gradually finding his or her feet as they are introduced to the genre will inevitably, I feel, lean heavily on Pink Floyd's catalogue as a Masterclass of prog.

I've pondered in previous Floyd reviews about the odd order in which I encountered their discography, and have mused often on how my perception of each them may have differed if I had followed the chronological path, instead of starting with The Dark Side Of The Moon. Say I had encountered Ummagumma before TDSOTM; I wonder if I would have made it much further than Atom Heart Mother? Although I'm sure ultimately my curiosity would have got the better of me, I'm eternally grateful that Atom Heart Mother was my seventh Floyd album; I was better prepared for it's eccentricity and ambition. and was able to contextualise it more appropriately against their later, better received and more commercially successful mega-sellers.

It is largely because of my well established appreciation of TDSOTM, Wish You Were Here etc at the time, that I now view Atom Heart Mother as the most underrated Pink Floyd album.

Actually buying my first vinyl copy of the album was a surreal experience. I remember handing the brand new cellophane wrapped album over the counter to the shop assistant. He looked at the cow. The cow possibly looked back. The shop assistant looked at me, shook his head and muttered something that sounded cryptically close to: "Bloody Hippy".

The sleeve was (and is) plainly bonkers and utterly prog (and is the first one taken from the banner on the front page of this blog) and simply owning it made me foolishly feel as though I was a mature, intelligent and impossibly hip cool cat. Anyway, I felt honoured.

Learning that this was the first side long suite committed to vinyl by Pink Floyd and that this was, in effect, the first real conceptual work, led me to the conclusion that Atom Heart Mother was arguably their first real prog album. I suppose, strictly speaking, that is not true as Ummagumma - which predated it - is nothing if not prog. It's just...It's just impossible to listen to all the way through without narcotics. Perhaps I should just state then, that Atom Heart Mother is their first prog album that 'works'. I wish I hadn't started this paragraph, but there you go.

The orchestral opening was a bit of a surprise, but its integration after less than a minute with the band proper was just genius. The Floyd stop for a moment, theres a catalogue of sound effects including explosions, horses and motorbikes before they come back in. This sets the course for the remainder of the twenty or so minutes: spells of unaccompanied orchestra interspersed with varying degrees of Floydian noodling. This noodling takes a variety of forms, from very familiar Rick Wright led keyboard themes, very much in keeping with later albums, gorgeous slow mellow passages with female vocal free-forming a la The Great Gig In The Sky and a full on choral passages with Nick Mason signature punctuating drumming, a great bass solo, a stunning bluesy guitar and Hammond organ duet. Then there is a few minutes sound effects with little or no obvious direction. This gives way to a lush string section before finally climaxing in pretty much all of the above. I haven't a clue what on earth it is all about, but I think it works superbly well.

First time around I wasn't overly taken with the second side, seeing it as something as an anti-climax. I now view almost all of the second side very differently. That Roger Water's was capable of a simple and touching love song such as If, I found remarkable to start with.

I'm now stunned that I overlooked Summer '68 as filler. The psychedelic chorus and spacey effects applied to Rick Wright's voice is very similar to one of my favourite (and formerly reviewed) album: Spirit's Twelve Dreams Of Dr Sardonicus. Rick's playing here is utterly inspired and now sadly missed. Listening to it now, I remain stunned that it is not more highly regarded.

Fat Old Sun has recently been resurrected by David Gilmour in his live shows. Every time I hear this track, I smile at the lyric lifted deliberately from The Doors. Very clever. A simple and beautiful track which culminates with a guitar solo which again improves with every listen.

Then, oh dear. Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast. Okay, it is amusing and quite clever, and yes it does flow very neatly from the end of the previous track, but it is ultimately infantile and makes you wonder what on earth they were thinking about. I suppose that it is very much of its time, it is unique and does afford the opportunity, when offered marmalade by an aged relative to state in a slightly stoned tone: "marmalade: I like marmalade", but other than that, it is a daft way to end an otherwise excellent album.

Despite the final track, I still maintain the view that it is a fine, fine album and deserved of a reappraisal.

Review of Rush's 2112

Released 1976
"Attention all planets of the solar federation We have assumed control."

I'm relieved that I can now review an album which I can honestly say I adored from the very first listen. That it is still a firm favourite many years later shows that my initial enthusiasm was not entirely down to the various intoxicants I was imbibing at the time. They might of helped though.

My first week in Halls of Residence , typical of most students, was memorable due to the dizzying array of new experiences of all kinds which I was exposed to. Some of them legal. Staggering from party to party, pub to pub, room to room, picking up all the bad habits that Glasgow could throw at me, encountering new and diverse music was an inevitable and often a very worthwhile occurrence. As a non-prog aside, to this day I cannot hear She Sells Sanctuary or The Whole Of The Moon without a wry smile crossing my grizzled brow.

The most prog worthy musical introduction of that first week came about very late one night when a small group of drunken students fell into Tommy Shaw's room. Tommy was from Fife with an impenetrable accent, which became all but unintelligible when he was drunk and / or enthusiastic. Closing one eye in order that I could see straight, I fingered my clumsy way through his quite sizable collection of LPs. Amongst many regrettable discs such as Journey, Boston and Blue Oyster Cult, Tommy had amassed pretty much all the Rush albums released up until that point.

I had heard of Rush, but had never heard Rush. I was impressed by many of the album covers and attempted to make my opinion known to Tommy in my soft Cornish tones which were fighting a losing battle with the effects of cider and whiskey as well as the fragrant aroma gradually enveloping the room. Tommy looked up at me and said something which started with "Fit?" before becoming entirely incoherent. Realising meaningful expression was beyond us, he fumbled past me and pulled out his copy of 2112. He uttered a sentence which included "Fockin' dead on", or something and put the platter on his turnable, his hand managing somehow to push the volume dial to maximum before he collapsed in a heap, knocked over a drink and was kicked by an irate bedraggled female of no fixed abode.

Yes, I may have been artificially enhanced at the time, but the I'll never forget the impact of that (very loud) opening 'whoosh', the powerful, strident drumming, huge power chords and the lunacy of the opening few minutes of the epic side long title track. Initially, I thought it was merely much better than average hard rock, before I realised that the time signatures were shifting every thirty seconds and the level of playing was really rather good.

Tommy gave me a thumbs up through the haze, took a drag on the herbal roll-up and told the departing female contingent - clearly unhappy with the spilled drink and inordinately loud music - to "aw, fock off", before falling over into a deep sleep. To appease the occupants of the neighbouring rooms who were banging on the walls, I turned the volume down to a slightly more acceptable level and took a good look at the sleeve.

I was amazed that this considerable cacophony was being created by just three musicians. The moustaches, spandex and regrettable hair styles made me wince (although not as much as it must surely make their respective owners hold their heads in shame that their mothers ever let them venture out into the realms of prog rock world domination in such a state) but found myself nodding along to the highly infectious riffing that was going on. Then the vocals kicked in for the first time. I probably made a face as though I had found a dead fish when I first heard Alex's vocals. It didn't last long though. As the song slowed for the brief acoustic interlude, I knew I was in the presence of very accomplished prog. The remainder of the first side veered through a very complex, exciting, loud and highly ambitious heavy prog suite which culminated in dramatic power chords lifted directly from the Pete Townshend school of riffery, accompanied by scary robotic chanting (as quoted at the front end of this review) before crashing into a climax of exhausted feedback. Wow, this was very impressive stuff. Given that I was still in the process of emerging from the heavy metal and hard rock apprenticeship of my earlier teenage years, stumbling across a band who so successfully welded together the better elements of that largely adolescent genre with the more sophisticated playing associated with prog was a real find.

The second side, whilst made up of five shorter tracks was no less convincing. Although I was struggling with at least two of my senses, I warmed to the highly distinctive vocals and realised that the drummer was very different to the usual run of the mill tub thumpers that I might usually have associated with the heavier end of the rock spectrum. Not only was there more going on in the sticks department in one song than a lot of drummers might contribute in a career, I was intrigued to learn that Neil Peart was the primary song writer. I was certainly in no state to think of another band where this was also the case. Even now, in my sober middle age I'm still struggling.

The shorter tracks on the second side was still resolutely prog with a variety of styles; rock, pop and ballads. I'll have to admit that my attention wavered a bit towards the end of the album, but I put that down to the time of night, my state of dehydration and an onset of the munchies.

As I wandered off towards the vending machine I was humming the refrain from A Passage To Bangkok with a silly lopsided grin.

Still a firm favourite and a superb CD for the car, 2112 will, I'm sure remain a consistent resident in my top twenty albums.

Review of King Crimson's In The Court Of The Crimson King

Released 1969

"The rusted chains of prison moons
Are shattered by the sun.
I walk a road, horizons change
The tournament's begun.
The purple piper plays his tune,
The choir softly sing;
Three lullabies in an ancient tongue,
For the court of the crimson king"

I seem to begin so many reviews with a confession for a very simple reason: my tastes have changed, often dramatically over the years. What I find interesting is that the change is always one way: I've yet come across an album which I once adored and now abhor. Yet there are so many times when I've purchased an album with high expectations only to be crushed with disappointment, often to the point where there has then been a new addition to the local second hand record shop's bargain box within twenty four hours of the original purchase. Needless to say, King Crimson's ground-breaking debut album falls very squarely into this well populated category.

I couldn't pick up a music magazine or music book without being reminded from every quarter that In The Court Of The Crimson King was one of the most important albums of the prog rock genre, in all likelihood the very first album to be labelled as such.

Likewise, there always seemed to be a copy of Barry Godber's iconic pink and blue screaming face peering out from amongst the twenty seven copies of 10cc's Greatest Hits and 461 Ocean Boulevard in the seond hand boxes.

It was hard not to be seduced by the sleeve; the front back and gate fold all drawing any self-respecting prog fan desperate to familiarise himself with the finest proponents of the foundations of prog.

There were also a few serious prog nerds in the halls of residents at the University of Glasgow. These guys were conversant with bands like Gentle Giant, Family, Pavlovs Dog and The Mahavishnu Orchestra; bands with an almost mystical unobtainability which made me coo pathetically in admiration. Mind you, they didn't have girlfriends. However, they would nod wisely, tugging their wispy beards and roll up the sleeves of their jumpers in enthusiasm at the mention of ITCOTCK. I had to see what the fuss was all about.

After exactly thirty seconds of mostly nothing, a sax and powerful guitar screams out the instantly recognisable riff of 21st Century Schizoid Man. The heavily distorted vocals, furious drumming veers from hard rock to more jazz influenced sections with the sax given at least equal time as the discordant guitar. The guitar solo was unlike anything I had heard before and seemed far removed from any form of rock I was familiar with. I looked at the year of release and was startled by the weirdness and strength for 1969. I could see why it must have caused a stir at the time of release. The band was incredibly tight; the drumming was outrageously precise. This was very strange but oddly hypnotic. Perhaps not what I expected, but worth a second listen at least.

On my first listen, from that point on, it all fell apart. I Talk To The Wind was a soft and directionless piece of whimsy, totally at odds with the preceding song and so obviously rooted in the late sixties, that I had to wonder if the two songs were by the same band. I thought it was terrible and willed it to stop.

Again, first time around Epitaph seemed a weak and inconsequential effort. I wasn't much fonder of Moonchild. I could see similarities with The Moody Blues and perhaps Barclay James Harvest, but all seemed very weak and not at all inspirational. The title track had it's moments, but seemed to wander on forever. As the needle ran off the into the centre groove, I removed the LP and put it back on the shelf, sneering at the gulf between its reputation and my nineteen year old opinion of it. Very soon afterwards, it too joined the many copies of 461 Ocean Boulevard and 10cc's Greatest Hits in the local second hand shop.

It would be unfair to end the review there.

I have of course revisited the album and am astonished by what I now see as one of the bedrocks of my record collection. But why do I see it differently? Simply being several years older is part of the reason. I can now contextualise the album in ways I couldn't when I was nineteen. I overlooked many things then: the adorable vocal of Greg Lake, the lush mellotron; in many ways unsurpassed since, the skill of the musicians in producing something genuinely unique which paved a path followed and exploited by others and above all the beauty of the title track. When I listened to this once more after a space of almost twenty years, I couldn't understand how I had missed this gem. I can only reason that as a teenager, my ability to appreciate more the subtle nuances of music weren't fully developed.

To be able to revisit a piece of work after two decades and find it so compelling is an incredible experience and a privilege. If I Talk To The Wind was absent, this would be a strong contender for a top five album for me.